Icing on the Cake

Ah depression! I went from eating nothing to eating pasta and cake icing. Last night it was Alfredo. Tonight it was marinara (lasagna). And cake icing. I have never been one of those crazy bitches with the long, painted finger nails and whiny voice daintily scraping the icing off the cake. The ICING IS THE BEST FUCKING PART. It’s the Tiffany’s of the cake for Christ sake. Anyway, my ass is truly going to be the size of New Hampshire if I don’t get up for spin at 6am. When I spin I am pedaling and dancing on the bike (cardio party hoorah) I just feel kind of un-fucking-stoppable. It’s dark, the music is loud, I’m moving, I’m mad, I’m sad, whatever. No one is watching and my ass is taping back or I’m dropping to the beat or I’m lifting weights (arm segments are killers). But it’s the only 45 minutes out of the day that are all FUCKING MINE. And the endorphins are necessary. Cake icing can’t do that. But fuck it tastes good.

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated Parker Brookwood’s story.